


Samson's Call

by Auriana Valoria (AuriV1)



Series: Herald of Change [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Free Marches (Dragon Age), Gen, Good Templars (Dragon Age), Mage-Templar War (Dragon Age), Minor Character Death, Red Lyrium, Tantervale (Dragon Age), Templars (Dragon Age), Trevelyan (Dragon Age) has Sibling(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 09:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25847143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuriV1/pseuds/Auriana%20Valoria
Summary: Knight-Lieutenant Donovan Trevelyan, alongside wandering fellow Templars both old and new, finds himself faced with a proposal from one "General Samson". Cautiously, he and his comrades investigate, and what they find is nothing short of worrying...
Series: Herald of Change [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636348
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Samson's Call

_Tantervale, the Free Marches; Pluitanis (Guardian), 9:41 Dragon_

After sheltering in Starkhaven through the new year and a little after, Donovan Trevelyan and his small band of Templars, fearing they were overstaying their welcome, eventually departed the largest city in the Marches for Tantervale, a settlement farther west along the Minanter River. This time, they made sure they had enough lyrium for the journey – which, due to the poor weather and hazardous conditions, was a little over a week.

They had picked up a handful new allies during that time… Templars who were tired of inaction and itching to see the wider world. First, there was Clara and Cornelia, twin sisters who were trained with small blades. With their identical features, the only way to tell them apart was the way they wore their blonde hair – Clara always sported a thick braid, while Cornelia’s was cut into a bob just below her ears. Then, there was Stefan, an elder Templar who said little but always seemed to instinctively know when his presence was required. He was completely bald, but sported a thick silver beard that was always kept cut short and well-maintained. Finally, there was Douglas, a short and stout young man who favored a shortbow and throwing knives but was also a capable fighter with a sword. Each of these Templars were Corporals, either from Starkhaven or from the surrounding area, who felt they could do more good on the move than they could holing up in a Chantry and hiding from the conflict. When Donovan and his friends had made plans to leave the city, these men and women who had made acquaintances with him over the previous weeks asked to accompany him; unable to refuse the extra blades, the Knight-Lieutenant had agreed.

The twins were the chattiest of the bunch, easily conversing with the other members of Donovan’s crew as though they’d known each other all their lives. Clara especially seemed to take a liking to Harwin in particular, as she often meandered from her sister’s side to talk with the platinum-haired, half elven man. Donovan would occasionally catch snippets of their conversations from his place at the head of the party, and judging from the distinctly one-sided nature of the discussions, Harwin did not know what to make of all this attention. Douglas seemed to fit in best with Sven and Emil, being of a similar age. He shared their dry wit, passing time with jokes and exchanging stories, most of the latter being embarrassing tales from training days. Bringing up the rear of the group was Jehanna, Dieter, and Stefan, the eldest of the group keeping well away from the chattering youngsters. They did not need to converse to appreciate each other’s company and, like Donovan, took it upon themselves to keep an eye out for danger while the others relaxed their guard.

Despite their number having grown from six to ten, they were still wary of opposition while on the road. There was no telling how many more rebel mages were running rampant in the woods, and how many other dangers besides. As such, they traveled as swiftly as possible and camped only for short periods, rotating watch every four hours. They were careful with their lyrium, but were certain to take enough to handle any magical threats that presented themselves.

But they had no idea they would face threats from their own kind.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

One of the local taverns in Tantervale was overcrowded. Donovan had expected this to be the case; between his company, the native residents, and the refugees who were fleeing the devastation in the countryside, there were almost too many people for the overworked wenches to keep up with. The din of the tavern was so loud that he almost had to shout for his comrades to hear him speak, and the sheer number of sweltering bodies in the place – despite the chill outdoors – created almost intolerable heat and stench that hung over them like an oppressive cloud. As they nursed watered-down ales in a shadowed corner, trying to keep away from the rowdiest of the rabble, the crew of Templars struggled to ignore the beads of sweat dripping down their scalps and the nose-curling odors of perspiration and cheap perfumes, among other things…

It was then that Jehanna motioned to get Donovan’s attention and pointed a gloved finger behind him. Turning about in his seat, Donovan suddenly saw another Templar headed towards them. A welcoming grin spread across his face, and he raised a hand to hail his nearing brother-in-arms…

…but as the man approached, pace unchecked as he disregarded the greeting, Donovan almost wished he hadn’t bothered.

The Templar’s armor was filthy, more so than from just mere travel. There were bloody stains all over it, and the plates bore signs of terrible abuse and neglect – unpolished, scratched, dented, rings of rust around the rivets. Over the breastplate was draped a chain that held a single piece of pulsating scarlet crystal. He wore an archer’s hood low over his face, but Donovan could still see a good bit of his countenance despite it, and a shiver ran up his spine as he beheld it; there were red streaks all over the Templar’s skin that pulsed and glowed, matching the same from the amulet, and his bloodshot eyes bore the same crimson glow.

When the Templar reached their table, he merely slapped a ragged bit of parchment face-down on the wood and growled, “General Samson calls you for duty. Do not disobey.”

At that, the Templar turned and departed, melting into the crowd and disappearing as quickly as he had appeared.

“Who in the Void was that?” Dieter’s eyes were narrowed as he scanned the throng, trying to find the strange Templar again.

“I… don’t know,” Donovan replied with brow furrowed, picking up the parchment gingerly, as if it might spontaneously combust in his hand. He turned it over and read:

_We are the Red._

_Meet us at the river at midnight._

_Join the storm that will cleanse the world, and never again know fear._

Below the note was a small, crude map pinpointing the meeting location the message mentioned.

“ _General_ Samson?” Harwin’s own brow knitted together. “Do you know who he was talking about? Because I don’t.”

“No, I don’t either.” Donovan frowned, passing the parchment to his companions and pointing. “Look at this.”

Jehanna read the parchment, her one good eye quickly passing over the page, and she pressed her lips together into a thin line. “He is mad.”

After taking the paper from his mentor and reading it himself, Emil added, “Did you see that thing he was wearing? That red thing? That was lyrium. I know it was.”

“Wait, what?” Sven’s eyes were wide.

“Emil’s right. I felt it, too.” Donovan shook his head, visibly shuddering as he remembered the sensation. “It was just like lyrium feels but… strange. It felt… deeper, somehow?”

“You mean it was like that red shit from Kirkwall?” Dieter asked, looking truly unnerved as he returned his attention to his fellows. “The stuff that drove Meredith mad and, rumor has it, is growing right out of the stone now?”

“His _face_ ,” Emil continued, his voice so low it was hard to discern over the noise of the tavern. “Did you see his face? He looked sick… _diseased_.”

“What have our kinsmen done?” Cornelia’s question was soft as her blue eyes stared blankly, and she listlessly released the parchment onto the table.

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Donovan replied at length, shoving away his empty tankard. “But I do know this: they’re recruiting for something. The question is… do we try to get to the bottom of it, or walk away and pretend this whole encounter never happened?”

“We _could_ go to the meeting place and see what they’re up to,” Harwin suggested with a shrug. “And if they try to rope us into anything, we can show them our blades.”

“We don’t know how many of them there are,” the usually-silent Stefan warned. “Best to just ignore this summons before we land ourselves in a trap we cannot wriggle out of.”

“That is a sound idea,” Jehanna remarked, turning up her tankard and draining it.

“But wait,” Sven leaned forward in his seat, and expression of concern writ on his countenance, “what if they’re up to something that will hurt someone… something like what happened at Kirkwall, or worse? If they’re using this red lyrium like I think they might be, they’re as nutters as Meredith was. We know about them now, and we could stop them. If something happens and we stand by and do nothing…”

“Sven has a point,” Donovan agreed with a heavy sigh.

“‘General Samson,’” Dieter repeated with a derisive snort. “Sounds like some little upstart taking advantage of the war.”

“How much do you want to bet he isn’t at the meeting place?” Cornelia observed with a smirk.

“Right,” Donovan replied grimly. “Even if we go to this meeting, chances are, we won’t find the leader.”

“Only lackeys.” Jehanna crossed her arms.

“Making it both dangerous _and_ pointless,” Stefan grumbled.

“Still,” the Lieutenant mused aloud, “what if this _is_ a trap for our brethren? What if someone is luring them with promises of glory? Should we not investigate and stop them if we can?”

“Do we honestly have any obligation to those who we call our ‘brethren’ anymore?” Douglas suddenly asked. “We’re not even part of the Order that splintered from the Chantry at the Lord Seeker’s decree. _We’re_ the rebels and the outcasts to them.”

“Yes,” Clara interjected, “but if the shoe were on the other foot, would we not like to have some of our like-minded fellow outcasts come to our aid if we needed it?”

At that, Jehanna huffed impatiently. “Lieutenant… if you feel strongly about this, then I _will_ say that I will follow you. But I advise caution.”

After a moment, there was a chorus of “ayes” around him, albeit a few reluctant ones.

Donovan fell silent as he thought, staring at the parchment where it lay after Cornelia discarded it. Either option was not an easy choice. But something told him he needed to find out what sort of movement this strange Templar was part of and what their intentions were, if he could.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

The night air of Tantervale was still and frigid, the breath escaping from the Templars’ helms like steam from boiling kettles. Donovan led the way through the moonlit streets, heading for the area outside the city walls to which the stranger’s map directed him. The gentle clink and rattle of their armor heralded their presence, so there would be no approaching the location stealthily. Instead, they would have to be ready for whatever sort of encounter the Maker had in store for them, friendly or otherwise. Donovan hoped that they would not need their weapons, but he felt deep in his gut that the situation would eventually demand them, if not sooner, then later.

The Minanter River wound its way through the Marches and past Tantervale’s walls at a steady pace, the sound of the gently lapping water filling the air as they approached. Their boots and skirts crunched and brushed the dry winter grass, and every sound was painfully loud. With each step, Donovan prayed to the Maker that there was not an ambush waiting on them…

And then, suddenly, he saw them. Abruptly holding up a hand as he halted in his tracks, he waved them all down behind a low wall. Peering over it, they could see two groups of Templars on the opposite bank. One group consisted of more than a dozen men, each of them wearing those strange red amulets. The other group was only four of what appeared to be mere recruits, judging from their uniforms. Donovan’s party could not hear the conversation from where they crouched, but it was apparent from the gestures and the stances of both groups that tensions were quickly mounting.

“Ready your weapons,” Donovan murmured, slowly sliding his own sword out of its sheath and slipping his shield onto his arm. He sensed that if these young recruits refused the strangers’ offer, then they would face retribution…

He was right. One of the recruits abruptly began backing away, hands held up in a gesture that betrayed his fear. That was when one of the stranger Templars, with a speed that was entirely unnatural, drew his blade, and in one swift movement, he ran the recruit through to the hilt.

Unbridled rage filled him.

“ _Attack!_ ” Donovan bellowed, leaping from his cover.

The shout seemed to take the strangers by surprise, and the recruits took full advantage of it. As the warriors of Donovan’s company splashed through the river towards their red-laced counterparts, the young ones ran for their lives in the opposite direction.

The ensuing battle went by in a complete blur. Donovan heard Jehanna and Emil loose arrows that whistled overhead as he and Harwin quickly flanked one of the larger warriors that Dieter charged head-on. The rest of his band crashed into the strange Templars with cries that pierced the night.

“Maker take you!”

“Traitors!”

Weapons clashed brutally, sparks flying from the force. Never had Donovan thought he would have to fight his own brethren, but it was plain that the Order was a pseudo-family no longer; the war had fractured it into too many parts, until the Templars did not even recognize each other as comrades-in-arms anymore. These diseased-looking ones certainly did not, fighting Donovan’s group with a savage fury and unnatural strength. It was not long before the mad Templars were on the verge of overwhelming them, attempting to push them back towards the river and into the water where they would have a greater advantage…

…and then the recruits returned.

Two were warriors, throwing themselves into the fray alongside Donovan and his men while their friend joined Jehanna and Emil in raining death from a distance. With their added force, the two sides were evened out in number, even if not in strength. Still, the recruits fought with all the fury of the more experienced Corporals, their desire for vengeance fueling them as much as their fear.

At last, after what seemed like an eternity of blow after blow, parry after parry, and yelp after cry, the battlefield fell still and quiet.

None of the stranger Templars remained alive by the end of it, and there were heavy injuries among the rest. Though the archers remained unharmed, the melee fighters among them had all taken hits. Dieter and Stefan had received the most harm of all, blood trickling from wounds in their sides. One of the straps on Stefan’s breastplate had been completely severed, leaving the metal dangling from the strip of leather under his other arm. Dieter had taken a particularly heavy blow to the abdomen, and his own breastplate was crunched inwards just below his ribs. Douglas, Clara, and Cornelia each had multiple bloody slashes crisscrossing their arms above their gauntlets. Sven and Harwin’s shields were destroyed, nearly shattered from the force of the blows they had blocked, and the former’s arm had been dislocated from the repeated impacts.

As for Donovan himself, he had thought he had been fortunate enough to escape injury until he felt a deep throbbing and stinging sensation in his right thigh. Looking down, he noticed he had been slashed cleanly from just above his knee nearly to his groin, where no plates protected. The cut was not very deep, but it was bleeding profusely, running in rivulets down his boot.

“Maker, what is… _ahh_!”

Clara suddenly dropped one of her daggers with a hiss as though it had scalded her and jumped backwards in fright. There, in the streak of blood that smeared the blade, was a slowly-growing red crystal. That prompted all of them to check their own weapons; Sven immediately tossed aside his axe, and two of the recruits dropped their swords as well.

“Abandon all of them!” Donovan barked, throwing his own blade to the dirt. “They’re tainted!”

“That _is_ red lyrium,” Jehanna confirmed solemnly as she peered down at the dead. “It has to be. There is no other explanation.”

“Maker,” Donovan breathed. “What has happened to them? What have they _done_?”

“It’s in their blood,” Emil explained. “So it stands to reason they’re taking it like we do the blue stuff.”

“Must’ve what made them so damned strong,” Dieter remarked darkly, wincing as he flexed his arm and cradled his side.

“T-that’s what they told us,” one of the recruits spoke up at last, removing his helmet and revealing a pale face with wide green eyes. “That we would be stronger… strong enough to stop _any_ mage. That we wouldn’t have to be afraid of them anymore.”

Donovan turned his helmed head towards the green-eyed young man and replied solemnly, “If that is indeed red lyrium, then the only thing they were promising you was madness.”

“Yes,” the other nearby recruit answered softly, a female voice resounding within her own helm as she looked down at their fallen comrade. “And we saw it all too late.” Turning back towards Donovan, she then dipped her head in deference. “Thank you for saving us… Knight-Lieutenant? I… I’m not sure we deserved it. But please… we have potions and bandages. Allow us to help you. It’s the least we can do in return for your timely aid.”

The recruits thus helped their rescuers heal and tend to their wounds as much as they could. They could not stop thanking Donovan and his companions all the while, explaining that they had answered the strange Templars’ call due to their numerous fears – about the future, about the mages, about what would happen if they ignored the message. They were left alone and unsure of themselves after their Circle had collapsed, leaving them amongst the few survivors.

Sighing, Donovan stepped carefully over to their fallen fellow. Removing his helmet and kneeling beside the body, he asked quietly, “Who was your friend?”

“Ser Fynnlan,” the marksman recruit replied. “I think he was from Ansburg.”

“Very well.” Donovan stood again with a solemn nod. “Bring Ser Fynnlan’s body with us to the Chantry so that he may be given proper funerary rites. Afterwards, get cleaned up and take some time to get yourselves together again. Then, we’re going to get out of here before more of those bastards show up.”

With that, he turned from them and marched back for the city gates, all the while thinking the chances of him ever seeing his sister alive again were becoming slimmer and slimmer…


End file.
